


He Hates It

by Gadhar



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, hating a lot of things, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gadhar/pseuds/Gadhar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates the fear and the demons. He hates what it all does to him, what it does to others. He hates how the person he was has long since disappeared and now he's hardly human. He hates that the very thing he wants is something he knows he cannot have. He won't drag others into his nightmares, he won't drag Derek in. Even though the man seems adamant about staying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Hates It

**Author's Note:**

> Bit darker look into the mind of Owen, especially when he first joined Seattle Grace and he's still recovering from the whole "out of my unit of 20, 19 died." That kind of thing is not something that just goes away. Again warning for the possibility of triggers though I honestly don't think there are any.
> 
> I own nothing but plot.

He hates it.

He hates the way he can't sleep at night, no matter how tired he is, just because the demons choose to run wild when it's dark. It's not like they aren't there in the light of the day, running behind his eyes where others can easily spot them, or playing across the back of his eyelids- a private movie only he has tickets to. But at night, that's when they run rampant. No longer lurking in the back of his mind, they move front and center, demanding attention and stealing every bit of it.

He hates how he can't sleep without the lights on, a child's fear stuck in the body of a grown man and gnawing at him. He knows there are no monsters hiding under the bed or in the closet. He knows this place is as safe as any and that there's less chance of him being in danger here than outside on the street. He knows that he keeps a baseball bat at the front door and at the bedroom door, a knife under the pillow and a gun in the drawer, just in case. He knows he's paranoid, but rightly so, and that with all these precautions, even if someone did break in, he'd be able to protect himself and things would turn out okay, for the most part.

He hates how, even though everything is telling him he's safe, his mind's still screaming that he's not. It's irrational is what it is, to feel so unsafe when he's as safe as possible- short of putting himself in a bubble wrap straightjacket inside a padded room with the most loyal and trusted armed guards right outside. It's irrational but he still feels it; still feels the primal terror that comes with every thought. _Hungry? Be afraid. CSI or Lethal Weapon? Be afraid. The white sneakers or black loafers? Be afraid. Tired? Be terrified._

He's fearful of more than just what goes bump in the night. He's scared of it all. Every light touch, every breeze, every scratch of branch against the window, every creak of pipe, every drip of water, every breath against his neck.

He hates how the arms around him are what wake him up from what was a light, fitful sleep at best. He hates that they feel so confining, hates that his mind has turned what should be a gesture of comfort into something of a nightmare.

He hates that he knows all of that and is still afraid. He hates, even more, that he can't stop it.

He can't stop the way his mind morphs his reality, morphs it into a dark room, a hole in the ground. He's aware of it every second. He sees the moonlight give way to complete darkness, sees the walls and floors start to close in. He knows his mind's playing tricks on him, but he still can't stop it.

He can't stop how the arms seemingly tighten around him, probably in response to him tensing, panicking. He can't stop how his mind changes them into thick concrete walls, cold and unbearable; how the woody smell of the oak floor changes to a stench of blood and sweat that mixes and cakes his nose; how the wind whipping outside drops into quiet, hushed screams that seemed amplified inside the box. It's always his imagination that turns on him then, giving the screams faces- pale, white skin, mouths twisted in horrid fear and something so close to accusation shining in their eyes. They're the faces of people he doesn't know, people that don't exist. But they've haunted him.

And he hates that.

He hates even more how much it takes out of him to pull himself out of the past, out of his memories. Hates that, even though, he's not captured by them they're waiting at the edges of his thoughts, waiting with ropes and knives and anything else to take him down and make him stay.

He hates how he brought this on himself, sleeping with the lights off in hopes of being normal, in hopes of making sure he's not thought of as a broken freak by the one that accompanies him. It's stupid, and he knows it. He shouldn't be like this, shouldn't feel like this, and he should know not to bring other people in.

He hates that his want for human interaction has him bringing people into his insanity, into his nightmares. Hates that they're unaware of it the entire time. Hates that's he's forcing himself to be normal for them in hopes that they'll stay. So the lights go off, just so he doesn't have to be alone.

But then he is, and he hates it.

And he hates how he has to leave.

Hates how he has to untangle himself from arms that want nothing more than to hold him, yet all he can see is danger. Hates that it has him wanting to scream but he holds it down, and moves quietly, always for another’s sake. And then he's down the stairs, retching in the sink for however long, coming up only to have a strangled cry claw at his throat and tears threatening his eyes. Because God, he _hates_ this.

He hates having no control, having nothing but fear. Everything else is intangible, having already fled. Fear is what drags him down past the brink, but it's also what keeps him dragging himself up.

He hates that, even fully awake, there's still fear in his eyes and it glows brighter than anything in the reflection of the window. Hates that he's breaking down because he feels so hopeless, because he is. And he hates that now, after all the panic, is when his mind goes quiet, when things recede into the back of his head. He hates that the damage is already done.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." He's cold and snappish; a string strung too tight with nerves fraying.

"Come on, let's go back to bed." He nods stiffly but he knows no more sleep will be had tonight.

He hates that, once they're upstairs, he freezes, he can't go back to the bed. It's too close to the closet, and the closet is too close to the damn box he was trapped in. It's all too close to things so far off and away, but it's still there, resembling his nightmares.

He hates that Derek's looking at him with confusion, his too blue eyes framed by a furrowed brow of concern because he doesn't understand. He'll never understand. But he knows something's wrong.

Owen hates that he can't explain it. There's nothing to explain, he's scared, that's all there is to it. There's no explanation for it. Owen hates that Derek's floundering to help him and that's Owen's fault because Owen shouldn't have brought him into this, shouldn't have forced anyone to endure this.

He hates that he has to sit under the window, it's open and free and feels like an escape route, and that's what he wants; what he needs. He hates even more that Derek, with two pillows and a blanket, sits next to him. Still trying to be there even though he doesn't understand any of it.

He hates that he's let Derek get too close, so close to seeing the demons. Owen doesn't count on Derek to stay when he finally sees the real him, the real, terrified, him.

He hates that Derek can read his thoughts, hates that he's that much of an open book. "I'm not going to leave."

He hates that he doesn't have a response for that. Hates that he can't even manage a thanks. Owen doesn't want to be alone, he never wants to be alone again. So a small part of him is happy Derek's here, but that same part, along with everything else, is what keeps him from saying anything.

He hates that, if he does say anything, it'll feel like he'll lose it all, lose everything that's ever been important.

He hates that they're both losing sleep tonight, and that it's all his fault.

He hates that, whatever he used to be, is gone, so damaged it'll never return.

He hates himself.


End file.
